


When An Apple Is Ripe, It Ought To Be Plucked

by runsinthefamily



Series: Nineteen [2]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Masturbation, UST, shame!boner, the handbasket to hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-17
Updated: 2011-08-17
Packaged: 2017-10-22 18:22:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/241145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runsinthefamily/pseuds/runsinthefamily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kmeme prompt: <i>Sebastian (maybe feeling a little old) realizes just how young F!Hawke is </i></p><p>Sebastian, you creeper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When An Apple Is Ripe, It Ought To Be Plucked

He knew exactly when his growing but still manageable tendency toward impure thoughts about Priana Hawke became a fully realized obsession. He could pinpoint the day, the minute, the _word_ that turned idle fancies, easily dismissed, into agonizing, drawn out nights of sweating in his narrow cot as he imagined her silky auburn hair, her heartstoppingly blue eyes, her sweet, ripe, full lips ...

 _***_

"Hmm?"

"I asked how old you are, Hawke." Varric grinned easily across the table at Hawke.

She dragged her eyes away from where Anders was fending off Isabela's cheerful attempts to make him drink ... well, something. It was difficult to call it ale, regardless of what Corff claimed he was selling. Sebastian bit his tongue in quiet penance for the mild surge of jealousy at the look on Hawke's face. Dopey, endearing, and slightly pained. She was pining after the abomination.

"Why'd you want to know?" Hawke narrowed her eyes at Varric. "Is this for one of your stories?"

"I just can't figure it out. Bethany's full grown, but your mother is clearly too young for you to be much older than ... twenty-five? Twenty-six?"

"Maker's cock," she muttered into her cup. "That year with the Red Iron must have been harder on me than I thought."

Isabela leaned across Anders, laying her breasts on the table underneath his nose. "What? You can't ask a woman her age, Varrik. Shame on you."

Hawke was blushing now, a delicate red tint creeping across her cheekbones.

 _Maker's breath, she's beautiful._ Sebastian shifted in his chair.

"So, younger than twenty-five?" Varrik leaned forward. "Twenty-three?"

Anders was carefully not looking in Hawke's direction.

"What are we talking about?" Merrill arrived from the bar with an armload of full mugs. Sebastian pushed his chair back. Third round, time for him to get back to the Chantry.

"Hawke's next birthday," said Varrik. "I want to know how many candles to put on the cake."

"Oh, she's nineteen," said Merrill cheerfully.

Anders's head snapped around. Isabela's mouth dropped open. And Sebastian froze halfway out of his chair, eyes fixed on Hawke.

"Merrill!" she squawked.

"Oh, was I not supposed to say?" Merrill put down the mugs, slopping ale on the table in her distress. "Creators, I'm sorry, Hawke, you never said it was a secret. Was it a secret? I'm so sorry."

"Not a secret, just ... oh, nevermind." Hawke was staring at Anders now, whose face had gone very still.

"I, ah, I'll just be off, then," said Sebastian. He found his way to the door and stepped out into the slightly less fetid air of Lowtown.

Nineteen. Maker's breath, Hawke was nineteen? He tried to remember himself at that age, and could only summon a blurred series of taverns and brothels and alleyways, interspersed with his father's grim disapproval. Everything about her was suddenly twice as impressive. The way she carried herself, her skill with her blades, her wit and compassion and confidence. And the way the woman - _girl_ \- flirted, you'd think she was as accomplished a rake as Isabela. As Sebastian had been himself.

The Chantry reared up in front of him, and he shook himself. It made no difference how old she was.

Sebastian stripped down in his tiny cell, hung his armor on the stand in the corner, and dropped into his cot. Nineteen. That was the year he'd first kissed a man, wasn't it? Or had he been twenty? He wondered how many men she'd kissed. Her blushing, awkward attentions toward Anders were certainly cast in a new light. As was the man's interest in her. The mage had to be nearly thirty. Nearly as old as Sebastian.

Sebastian turned restlessly over. The idea of Priana's sweet youth paired with that ragged, heretical, corruption ... his hands, scarred and too knowledgeable, on her pliant skin ... his lips, spilling filth into the fragile cup of her ear ...

"Andraste, help me guard my thoughts," he muttered and turned again, twisting in the coarse sheets. Youth needed experience to guide it. Perhaps he could spend more time with Priana. Be a steadying influence in her life. Keep her from poor choices that could ... ruin her. Wreck her. Leave her regretting past debauchery that turned up in her dreams and haunted her. He knew what men like Anders could do to a young girl. Maker, if _he'd_ met her four years ago ... _she would have been fifteen._

The thought was like a jolt of electricity. He actually jerked in the hot sheets, his cock twitching. When had he become hard?

"No," he said into the crook of one elbow, but his other hand stole downwards, closed around his cock and began to tug.

What if she was with Anders now? If he'd decided that she was just too delicious to pass up, lovely young thing all wide eyed and wet lipped for him, desperate to learn? And what a lot he would have to teach her, all manner of things that a girl of nineteen might not even have heard of. Would he be kind to her? Caress her gently, touch her with reverence, treasure her innocence even as she lost it? Or, no, yes, once he had her alone, would he ravage her mercilessly until she screamed his name?

Yes. His hand sped up. In a room in the Hanged Man, no, in his clinic, yes, Anders would bolt the door, close the distance between he and Hawke like a predator. She would bite her lip, nervous but eager. A kiss, firm and demanding, his tongue pushing in to coax hers out, then trail his lips down her throat to nip at her shoulder. Kiss her again, kiss her until she reels and doesn't even notice as he strips her shirt from her and her breasts are bare, so taut and firm, nipples standing out, begging to be thumbed, squeezed, her breath steepens, he smiles knowingly against her skin.

 _What are you doing_ , she would say, tremulous, and he would silence her with another kiss. Naked on that filthy table, yes, her skin like cream and purity, her legs trembling, and he would bend to her cunt and work her with lips and tongue and teeth until she panted and begged, not knowing what she wanted, only that she wanted it. And then, yes, give it to her, yes, show her what it was, cock into cunt, and she would be so wet and tight, tighter than anything, young and tight and ...

"Uhh!"

He spent into his hand, into the sheets, back arching. Shame rushed in as arousal ebbed, and Sebastian curled up on his side. Maker's mercy.

Nineteen.


End file.
